


Try to Know For Sure

by makeit_takeit



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2010 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 00:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: Lots of people watch Geno. Like most people, really, at least let their eyes linger for a few seconds.For starters, he’s six foot three with a penchant for thick-soled combat boots and carefully sculpted hair arrangements that together can easily add 5 inches to his overall height. Then there’s the eyebrow ring, the purple streak through his dark hair, the smudged eyeliner, and typically, the tightest pants Geno can pour his fabulous if-he-does-say-so-himself ass into.All of those would be enough, any given day, to make people stop and stare.But today he’s also the guy most of North America watched in Prime Time last night, kicking ass and taking names as he as he swiped the Men’s Singles Gold from the clutches of that whiny fucking sore loser, Plushenko. So.Yeah, lots of people are watching him, but Sidney Crosby is not lots of people. He’sSidney fucking Crosby.





	Try to Know For Sure

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of a stellar start to the Post-season, I offer you Geno-as-figure-skater meets Sid-as-Sid in Vancouver in 2010. I started it during the Olympics and had all but abandoned it, but last night inspired me, I guess.
> 
> Just a little fluff. Enjoy!

For all the ways that the last two weeks have been the long-awaited and well-deserved payoff for a lifetime of literal blood, sweat, and tears, as it turns out, being the darling of the US Olympic team kind of blows.

There are screaming fans everywhere, which Geno loves, but there’s no denying it takes his focus away from the thing that got him here to begin with. There are a million media requests from all over the world, interviews and articles and questions shouted at press conferences not just in English and Russian like usual but in languages he can’t even identify, that have to be translated to him by one of the Olympic media translators, who then translate his answers back, and so on, making everything slower and more awkward and generally just agonizing. There are sponsorship offers pouring in, companies and products he’s never even heard of, and his agent in his ear constantly about striking while the iron is hot, about how the spotlight on a Winter Olympian is glaring but brief - like he doesn’t _know_ that – and they need to move quickly if they want to take advantage of this window.

And seeping into every little nook and cranny left between all those other concerns is the fear and joy and overwhelming stress of his first Olympic competition and having to actually like, _skate_ , and you know - _perform_. With the ever-present weight of both America’s expectations and Russia’s disdain sitting squarely on his shoulders.

And then last night, _finally_ , there was the Free Skate and nailing his fucking quad-triple-triple like _no fucking big_ , and then his second quad and then his third quad and then it all kind of went blank. He has flashes of the roar of the crowd and his hands full of flowers and tears on his mother’s cheeks in the Kiss and Cry, and then tears on _his own_ cheeks while the Anthem played, and then there was champagne and then vodka and then suddenly it was morning and there was Matt Lauer live at 8 AM on the East Coast which was 5 AM in fucking Vancouver and at that point he was still considerably drunk, and couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept at all. He didn’t even bother trying to hide his exhaustion; it took all his remaining energy to focus on appearing sober.

So, fuck _yeah_ , it’s been _a lot_. The realization of his childhood dreams, yes, and the culmination of his life’s work, sure, and mind-blowingly awesome, definitely, but still – _a lot._

And he understands, he does. The Olympics thrive on human interest stories as much as they do on competition and feats of athletic greatness, and his story is heavy on all three:

A Soviet-trained pairs-skating team, just out of the medals in Sarajevo, bring their young sons to America after the fall of the Soviet Union. They scrimp and save and finally manage to scrape together enough money to build a passable rink inside a crappy metal building on the outskirts of Chicago, and eke out a living teaching kids to skate, their own version of the American Dream.

Their boys grow up as typical American kids, playing football and baseball and basketball, soccer and hockey in turns, but the younger one takes to figure skating, to the delight of his parents. After a storied Juniors career, he arrives at the 2010 Olympics as the defending U.S. National and World Champion, with a reputation as the most athletic skater in a generation. He’s got the quick and precise footwork of a running back and a vertical leap to put half of the NBA to shame, but with his parents’ emphasis on traditional old-world artistry still readily apparent in every move.

He came to Vancouver threatening to overthrow the Classical Russian Dynasty that has owned Men’s figure skating for the past 5 Olympiad with his bold, explosive, and purely American style - and then he made good on the threat.

His Russian parents cheering him on in their Team USA jackets was just the icing on the cake; NBC couldn’t have scripted it better themselves.

+++

Geno finally crashed after the Today interview, but hauled himself out of bed in time for the Hockey final – wouldn’t have missed it. He wore his Team USA sweats and a green foam Statue of Liberty hat and waved the Stars and Stripes for all he was worth, more than aware that he would most likely be prominently featured on the American broadcast, but in the end, the boys couldn’t get it done.

Thanks to Sidney fucking Crosby, of course, because who else?

The same Sidney fucking Crosby who is now watching Geno from across the Team Canada celebration party.

Which, okay, is not that strange a concept, on the surface. Lots of people watch Geno. Like _most_ people, really, at least let their eyes linger for a few seconds.

For starters, he’s six foot three with a penchant for thick-soled combat boots and carefully sculpted hair arrangements that together can easily add 5 inches to his overall height. Then there’s the eyebrow ring, the purple streak through his dark hair, the smudged eyeliner, and typically, the tightest pants Geno can pour his fabulous if-he-does-say-so-himself ass into.

All of those would be enough, any given day, to make people stop and stare.

But today he’s also the guy most of North America watched in Prime Time last night, kicking ass and taking names as he as he swiped the Men’s Singles Gold from the clutches of that whiny fucking sore loser, Plushenko. So.

Yeah, lots of people are watching him, but Sidney Crosby is not lots of people. He’s _Sidney fucking Crosby._

+++

Geno is totally attending this party without any national guilt whatsoever. Because first of all, he’s a Chicago boy through and through, and like, the biggest ‘Hawks fan ever. As a fellow local ice-related celebrity of sorts, he’s crossed paths with a few of the guys quite a bit and gotten to know some of them pretty well. So when Toews texted, _Dude u shd get over here shits bananas_ , who is Geno to defy his Captain?

But second of all, though he wishes they hadn’t had to beat Team USA for it to happen, and Geno’s heart was breaking just a few hours ago, he’s still happy for the country of Canada as a whole, on the sort of magnanimous level where it obviously means more to them than it does to America, and also where Geno’s got his own Gold Medal stashed back in his room so, y’know, he can let them have their moment or whatever.

Sidney Crosby looks a little glassy eyed and his face is splotched with pink, and he keeps being jostled and slapped on the back, having his hair ruffled and his face kissed by teammates and other revelers, but he keeps looking, and keeps coming closer, Geno’s sure he’s not imagining it.

He’s also pretty sure he’s not imagining the _way_ Crosby is looking at him.

And, okay, one of the benefits of being a male figure skater has always been that people tend to assume Geno is gay. Which, since he is, works out great.

He can understand why it’s not as great for the guys who are straight, and he’s aware of the way that those preconceived notions about men in his sport can drive some promising skaters into the arms of more _masculine_ endeavors instead, which is complete bullshit. Geno himself had to make a choice between hockey and figure skating when he was only 12, and it was tough, but he’s never regretted it.

Of course, for him, the whole presumed-gay thing actually kind of helped ease the way when he was younger, when he decided he’d seen all of the closet he ever cared to see by the time he was 17. No one was even slightly surprised when he came out, and he knows he largely has stereotypes about male figure skaters to thank – or whatever - for that.

Well. Stereotypes about male figure skaters, along with his own innate flair for fashion, which for some reason people insist on interpreting as _gay_ instead of recognizing it as just plain _killer style_. Geno has never understood why straight boys have to be such terrible dressers, like how hard is it to put a little effort in, but –.

The original point was, Sidney Crosby obviously must know Geno is gay. It’s not exactly a secret. And he’s still _looking_ , and coming closer slowly but surely.

It’s impossible to tell whether Sidney Crosby is a good dresser, or not. The only independent image Geno can conjure of Crosby not in hockey gear is of him in a suit on game days, which Geno sees on TV pretty regularly, considering the amount of hockey he watches. Tonight Crosby’s in his Team Canada gear, but so is everyone, so that’s nothing to go on, and hockey is most definitely not an assumed-gay kind of sport.

Geno has no other clues to go by, aside from the way Crosby is looking at him, which seems pretty. Well.

_Blatant._

Geno keeps his eyes on Crosby, silently willing him closer. Because he’s spent a lot of time in his career as a hockey fan hating the guy’s guts and cursing his goddamn name, but that doesn’t mean he’s missed the fact that Sidney Crosby is hot as hell. So Geno watches, sips his beer, and waits.

+++

“Hey,” is what he says, when he finally closes the last few feet between them after his glacially slow approach from across the room, which to Geno seemed to take hours.

“Hey,” is all Geno says back, because what even _is_ this? He can’t believe it’s what it seems like, even when Crosby says,

“I saw you skate last night. You were really awesome. For sure.”

“Thanks, man,” Geno tries out his best sheepish grin, ducking his head a little. Sidney Crosby is surprisingly short. “What about you, huh? Amazing goal out there.”

Crosby blushes, like he hasn’t heard that five thousand times tonight. Geno is instantly charmed.

“It was a great game,” he says in the carefully measured Post Game Interview Voice that Geno recognizes from TV. “Your guys really gave us a tough fight. We were lucky to get the win.”

He’s just so _earnest_ , and Geno is charmed, some more. He starts to wonder how one might go about getting Sidney Crosby alone, on the night he won the gold medal, and the undying love of every Canadian ever.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, though.

“Would you want to, um,” Crosby starts, then his eyes go wide like he’s surprised himself, and he suddenly lifts his beer and takes a long swallow.

Geno narrows his eyes, moves in closer, just gauging the reaction. In Geno’s experience, dudes who aren’t into other dudes, straight boys who aren’t just _playing_ straight for the crowds or the cameras, tend to move back automatically if a guy they don’t know gets too close, tend to adjust instinctively to maintain a clear buffer zone of personal no-homo space. Crosby just watches him, head craning back as Geno gets closer, keeping his eyes on Geno’s face, or. Maybe on his mouth, actually, Jesus Christ.

Geno grins, tries not to let it slide into a smirk.

“Hell yeah, I would.” He nods, raises his eyebrow in question. “You wanna?”

Crosby blushes a pale, pretty pink, but he drains his beer. He sets it down on a tall table with a thunk, then nods, emphatic.

“Definitely, I just.” He looks around, a little furtively. “I can’t exactly leave right now, with everything – you know.”

“Sure, I get it, yeah,” Geno nods hastily, watching Crosby’s tongue slide across his lower lip and feeling the hot rush of arousal in his belly at the sight. He seriously can’t believe any of this.

“Maybe I could,” he gestures toward the phone clutched in Crosby’s hand, “just put in my number? Then you could let me know. Whenever you’re free.”

Crosby nods and brings up his contacts on his phone, opens a new one then hands the phone over to Geno with a smile that might be, God, it’s almost _shy,_ and this guy really can’t be serious.

There’s at least better than even odds this is a prank, that’s got to be it, but he puts his number into Crosby’s phone anyway, and hands it back.

“It might be kinda late,” Crosby scratches at the back of his neck, looking uncertain.

“I can wait,” Geno grins, and watches Crosby blush again.

If there’s even the slightest chance any of this is real, you better fucking believe Geno’s gonna take it.

+++

Geno’s roommate is kind of a homophobic asshole, but the good news is he’s dating Nastia Liukin and spends most of his time at her swanky hotel suite. Nastia’s an awesome badass who Geno’s always had a little bit of a girlcrush on, and Evan’s a fucking dick, so when she visited their room in the village Geno smiled politely and shook her hand and said in Russian,

_I’m a huge fan, it’s an honor, and you and your family have been such an inspiration to me and mine. I think you should know your boyfriend gets other women’s phone numbers when you’re not around, and talks about how clingy and annoying you are every time you call him. You can do so much better, and I really hope you will._

Nastia turned a little pale, and Evan narrowed his eyes at Geno.

“What was that all about?” he demanded, but Geno just kept smiling.

“I was just saying nice to meet you. It’s more complicated, in Russian.”

She hasn’t broken up with him, at least not yet, judging by the fact that his shaving kit is gone and his bed hasn’t been slept in, and Geno’s love for Nastia and his fervent wish for her to dump Evan’s useless orange-tinted ass notwithstanding, he’s happy to have the room to himself for the night.

He takes a shower and jerks off, just to take the edge off, his phone on the back of the toilet so he doesn’t miss any alerts. He does a little man scaping, not that his shit isn’t perpetually on lock when it comes to that, but Geno’s personal belief is that extra effort is never wasted. He figures Sidney Crosby, of all people, would appreciate that.

He’s lounging on the bed in basketball shorts, a t-shirt, and nothing else, scrolling through the results of his Google image search for _Sidney Crosby ass_ and idly rubbing the fingers of his free hand back and forth across his nipples when the text pops up.

 _I’m free now, if you’re still up_.

Geno contemplates the wisdom of making some innuendo about being _up_ , but decides not to risk it. Crosby has a reputation for having a personality that’s half business, half dork, and 100% awkward, and Geno doesn’t want to spook him. Because he also has a reputation for being focused and driven and the hardest worker (with the finest ass) in the NHL, and Geno would really, really hate to miss his chance to find out how those particular qualities manifest themselves in circumstances that are less about hockey, and more about, you know. Boning.

 _Definitely up_ , is all he says, leaving any double meaning open to interpretation. _Roommate is staying at his girlfriend’s hotel 2nite, or I can come 2 you?_

 _I have a hotel, more privacy here_ , is the response, followed by the hotel name and room number.

 _Privacy sounds amazing_ , Geno types, then _b there asap._

Crosby sends back a smiley face, and Geno’s stomach flutters a little. He slides on some sweats, his shoes and coat and a hat, and grabs his credentials and his wallet. He doesn’t figure there’s any reason to bother with underwear.

On his way out of the village he grabs two hands full of the free condoms and little lube packets that are perpetually on offer and stuffs them in his coat pockets. He shares a knowing grin with a blonde woman in a team Germany hoodie as she does the same, and laughs when she says, barely a hint of an accent in her perfect English, _hope you have lots of fun._

+++

When the door opens and it’s actually Sidney fucking Crosby on the other side, Geno can’t help _still_ being just the tiniest bit surprised. All the way over here, he was still telling himself not to get his hopes up, that it had to be a prank, maybe Toews was punking him or something, that he was surely misunderstanding somehow. But now he’s in an empty hotel room, just him and Sidney Crosby, who is wearing a plain white undershirt and some sweats, and whose hair is wet and skin is rosy like he’s fresh from the shower.

“Sorry it got so late,” he says, standing back to let Geno pass. “Thanks for coming anyway.”

“I thought you guys were all staying in the village?” Geno asks, checking out the standard issue room as he shucks his coat and hat into the ever-present hotel arm chair.

“Yeah, for sure,” Crosby shrugs, “I just got this in case I needed it.”

Geno grins, lecherous and knowing, eyebrows raised. Crosby blushes.

“Not for _that_ ,” he rolls his eyes. “Just, like, extra family or friends showing up, or just if I needed a night away from the craziness, you know? It’s a long tournament; it’s been pretty intense.”

“I’m sure,” Geno’s smile turns softer, “I can totally feel that.”

“Yeah,” Crosby shrugs again. His bare toes are snow white, vulnerable and small where they flex against the plush carpeting. It’s so _human_ , so _not_ what Geno thinks of when he thinks of Sidney Fucking Crosby, Hockey Robot and Next One. It makes Geno want to scoop him up, hold him close.

“So you watched me skate,” he says, not a question, and toes off his sneakers one at a time, eyes on Crosby’s face the whole time.

Crosby nods as Geno moves closer, stands his ground just like he did back at the bar, tipping his head back to look up as Geno closes the space between them.

“I never understand how you guys do that stuff,” he shakes his head, a little bashful. “I mean, I’m pretty good on skates eh, but all those jumps and stuff seem, like, physically impossible.”

“They are, for most people,” Geno grins, and lets his hand come to rest on Crosby’s hip. “That’s why they give you a medal for being good at it.”

Crosby rolls his eyes at Geno’s words, but he doesn’t flinch at the touch, doesn’t move away, doesn’t take his eyes off Geno’s face. That same bashful little smile stays right there on his pretty mouth.

“I can do a lot of things that other guys can’t do,” Geno smirks, pushing his luck probably, but Crosby’s throat works up and down, and his face goes splotchy, less uniformly pink.

“Oh yeah?” Is all Crosby says as Geno’s free hand lands on his other hip, as his fingers squeeze and tug, pulling them flush against each other.

“I’m not the only one,” Geno’s still grinning, because Jesus, this might be really, actually happening. “I mean, you’re Sidney fucking Crosby.”

“Call me Sid,” Crosby says, soft and breathy, and Geno nods, tries it out in his own head before he trusts himself to say it out loud. He brings their foreheads together, feels the rise and fall of Crosby’s chest against his own, feels, _Jesus_ , Crosby’s dick fattening up against his leg, and figures, finally, nobody would go this far for a fucking prank.

It’s fucking _going down_ , Geno and Sidney Fucking Crosby.

Geno moves a hand up to Crosby’s neck, thumbs over his throat and whispers _Sid_ into Crosby’s mouth as he seals their lips together.

Crosby – Sid – just wraps his arms around Geno’s waist and melts into Geno’s body, into his kiss, like he was made for it, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

+++

Geno had thought, vaguely, in the few hours he had to actually think about it, that based on what he knows and what he’s heard, Crosby – _Sid_ – would probably be bossy in bed.

Not that Geno couldn’t get into that, for sure, but this - Sid all boneless and sweet and flushed and breathy, opening so easy around Geno’s fingers, panting _please, please_ when Geno says _you want my cock in here, huh, ‘s that what you need?_ – well, this is like, off-the-charts better than anything Geno could have dreamed.

Sid squirms, legs splayed open around Geno’s body where he’s kneeling on the bed, rolling the condom down over his dick with slippery, shaking fingers.

“Geno,” Sid’s fingers are fisted into the blankets on either side of his hips, but one hand lets go of the death grip it has on the duvet and reaches for Geno, fingers ghosting along his thigh.

“Can you, please,” he starts, glassy-eyed and pink-lipped. They’ve been making out, sloppy and slow, forever now, while Geno slowly worked one, then two, then three fingers into Sid’s body, while Sid writhed and moaned under him, making wet, soft, eager little noises into Geno’s mouth.

Geno’s so turned on, so ready for this, he nods, sure that whatever Sid needs, he can do it.

“Can I what, baby?” he asks, lowers his mouth to the inside of Sid’s knee and leaves a wet kiss there. He leans in to let his dick nudge up between the slick cheeks of Sid’s ass, wraps his hand around Sid’s leaking cock, stroking loosely. “Anything you need, I’ll do anything, just tell me. Wanna make you feel so good.”

Sid lets out a high pitched sigh, at that, fingers clutching at Geno’s flank.

“Can you,” he says again, and his legs are wrapping around Geno’s back, he’s using the leverage to cant his hips up off the bed, to grind his ass against Geno’s cock. “Can you do it hard, please,” he pants. “Like, really hard?”

Geno grits his teeth and squeezes his hand around the base of his cock. Jesus.

“I can do that,” he promises, a low growl. “You want to feel it tomorrow, huh? Want me to make sure you remember I was there?”

“Yessss,” Sid hisses, low and eager. “Know you’re strong,” he pants, head thrown back and eyes closed, throat bared, “show me, show me.”

Geno groans and gives his cock one more firm squeeze, gets a handle on himself as best he can given the circumstances, and does his level best.

+++

“Is this what you were thinking, when you were watching me skate?” Geno smiles into Sid’s damp hair, fingers carding through it gently. He’s got Sid tucked up against him, back against Geno’s chest. They’re a sticky, sweaty, tangled mess, both sated and heavy-eyed at this point. “You saw me land all those jumps and you thought, I gotta get with that?”

“Actually. I saw the SI Olympic Preview Issue, with you on the cover?” Sid shrugs inside the circle of Geno’s arms, and Geno can just see the corner of his grin. The bashful, sheepish shyness from earlier seems to have drained out of him somewhat with his orgasm.

“You had on this blue – _outfit_ – and it was. Well. I had to Google you.”

Geno knows the picture, of course, knows exactly the costume. It was Worlds last year, when he wore the electric blue metallic one-piece with the black leather racing stripes and the low-cut V neck. It showed off the lines of his body to their best advantage, hiding nothing and accentuating, well, everything. It was a little racy, sure, maybe just a little slutty, but it had been the talk of the competition, which was of course the whole point.

“Perv,” Geno accuses.

“Pretty much,” Sid agrees with another shrug.

“And you thought, what? _Hey, as long as I’m also at the Olympics, maybe I can get on that D_?” Geno snorts, pinches his hip until Sid squirms.

“Well. I guess, um - Google said you were gay, and also a hockey fan?”

“Ohhhhh I see,” Geno singsongs as he squeezes Sid closer, nuzzles his neck. “If I like dick _and_ I like hockey, I will obviously be all over the dick of Sidney fucking Crosby.”

“No! That’s not what I thought,” Sid tenses a little, starts to look unsure, suddenly, and Geno thinks maybe he doesn’t get that Geno’s just teasing him.

“Hey, obviously you thought right. Guess I’m lucky I ran into you tonight,” Geno mouths against Sid’s sweaty neck, sucks on his ear, tries to bring him back to that place where he was loose and unguarded, “or I would never have known The Great Sidney Crosby was feeling me.”

“You would have known,” Sid says with certainty, turning his head back to meet Geno’s mouth with his, body relaxing again into Geno’s arms. “I would have made sure you knew.”

“How’s that?” Geno grins against Sid’s mouth, scoffs playfully at him with their breath damp between them, rubs his nose against Sid’s while he teases, “were you gonna write me a fan letter? _Dear Geno, you were so hot on the cover of SI, call me sometime so we can touch dicks, love, Sidney Crosby, Captain, Pittsburgh Penguins_.”

Sid doesn’t rise to the bait, he just says,

“ _No_ ,” and rolls his eyes. “I figured if I didn’t ever see you around the village or whatever, I’d just go to the Gala,” he shrugs again, like there’s nothing revelatory about this information at all, “and play the _I’m kind of big deal_ card to make sure I got introduced.”

Geno feels the hot zip of that rush through him. That Sidney fucking Crosby even knows what the fucking Gala is, much less that he was going to _go there_ , just to meet Geno. That he had this planned out ahead of time, because that’s just too much to believe, that can’t even be true, like, at all.

“Are you for real right now?” He manages to choke out, because _Jesus_.

“I’m so for real,” Sid promises, spinning in the circle of Geno’s arms and grinning up at him. “I’m the realest.”

“Oh my God,” Geno sputters. “The Great Sidney Crosby is a perv, _and_ a dork.”

“And you only expected the dork part, right?” Sid looks at him searchingly, eyes dark and serious suddenly. Geno feels his face heat, because – yeah, kinda. But not like he’s going to say that, he’s not an idiot. Or an asshole. So instead he says,

“I didn’t expect anything, really,” which is also kinda true. “I had no idea you were into boys, much less that you’d be into _me_.”

He blows out a breath, still finding this whole situation a little hard to believe.

“Honestly, until you actually opened the door tonight I was pretty sure I was being punked or something, I didn’t think it would really be you.”

Sid looks confused.

“But. Who else would it have been? You put your number in my phone.”

“Yeah, I know, but -.” Geno starts, shakes his head, then stops. “I don’t know, it doesn’t really make sense, I guess, I just. I thought, y’know. No way I go to a party and Sidney fucking Crosby comes up to me out of nowhere and wants to bone, y’know?”

Sid’s still looking uncertain, so Geno hurries on.

“Sid. I just mean, I thought maybe Tazer or – someone – I don’t know – got you to play a prank on me or something because otherwise it was just you hitting on me and that seemed like. I mean. I’m lucky, yeah, but not _that_ lucky, y’know? I mean, you’re not just some guy at a bar, Sid. You’re Sidney fucking Crosby.”

“You keep saying that,” Sid narrows his eyes, searching Geno’s face, “like you’re not Geno fucking Malkin. I mean – you’re not just some guy in a bar either, eh?”

He smiles again, goofy and bashful, and runs his fingers over Geno’s cheek.

Geno really can’t be expected to withstand that kind of shit.

He shoves Sid over onto his back, rolls onto him with a growl. Sid’s giggle turns into a loud, honking laugh that is totally and absolutely _not_ adorable, no matter what Geno’s sex-stupid brain tries to tell him to the contrary.

+++

When he left Sid in his hotel room in Vancouver, Geno had still been able to taste himself on Sid’s tongue when he kissed him goodbye and said _text me anytime_. Sid had ducked his head and blushed adorably like he hadn’t just begged shamelessly for Geno’s cock – three times - and had said _I will_.

But then, he didn’t.

Geno’s been trying not to be too disappointed about it. Sid had said he didn’t do that kind of thing often, and anyway, they live in different cities, and they’re both busy people, both people with lots of options in the sex and dating arena. It was the Olympics and he’d just won a gold medal. It’s not like Geno’s uninitiated in the ways of celebratory one-night hookups, and just because that one particular celebratory one-night hookup with Sidney fucking Crosby happened to be awesome and crazy hot and face-meltingly good, that still doesn’t make it mean more than any other celebratory one-night hookup.

He keeps telling himself, he just happened to catch Sid at the right place at the right time, and that’s all it was, all it will ever be.

That’s what he’s been telling himself, but he’s still had February 20th circled on his calendar since the ’10-’11 NHL schedule came out – the day the Pens will be in Chicago. He still buys tickets to the game, then considers who to bring along. His brother, the actual hockey fan, would be the obvious choice, but Denis would just be annoyed by Geno fangirling over Sidney fucking Crosby. He decides his best friend Irina, who could care less about hockey but is willing to come based on the promise of hot boys fighting, and who would be totally supportive if Geno were to, say, abandon her at a moment’s notice to go get laid, is a much better bet.

Not like Geno really thinks he’ll even get to see or talk to Sid. Or like he thinks Sidney fucking Crosby is the kind of guy who’d really come through with with some weak move, some last-minute call or late night text a year after the fact, looking for round 2 like they haven’t both moved on.

Even if it would be round 4, _technically_. And even if Geno would probably be into it anyway, if it turned out Sid _was_ that kind of guy.

+++

Geno is lounging in his bed still nursing his New Year’s hangover, reading his twitter feed and only half-watching the Winter Classic when Sid gets hit.

It looks bad, at first, but then he comes back and finishes the game, and Geno doesn’t think anything else of it.

He doesn’t see the next hit, or even hear about it at first. Not until it starts to be Big News – _Sidney Crosby out indefinitely with “concussion like symptoms”_ – the kind of news that has the potential to change the whole NHL landscape, with the way Sid’s been playing.

Geno thinks about texting him, just _sucks being injured_ , or _hope you’re holding up okay_ , something like that.

But Nationals are looming and he’s about to leave for North Carolina and and he has to focus, has to get his game face _all the way on_ and stop obsessing about pointless bullshit, like, _yesterday_.

When he’s crowned U.S. National Champion for the third year running, Geno barely even spares a thought for whether or not Sidney fucking Crosby might have been watching.

+++

It’s a regular workout, just like every workout before. It’s not even particularly hard or grueling, only his second time out on the ice since Nationals, just a maintenance session really, something to get his blood pumping and keep the rust from forming while he eases slowly back up to full speed after the inevitable hangover of winning the biggest competition of the season so far.

It’s a regular morning, with a regular breakfast and a regular shower and a regular drive to the rink. It’s a regular set of stretches and a regular warm-up, and regular first couple of jumps, just feeling his way back onto the ice.

It’s a regular takeoff, and a regular flight in the air, which should all add up to a regular landing, but it doesn’t.

As soon as Geno’s skate makes contact with the ice, he feels a weird wobble then a searing pain, then it’s like somebody cut the strings that make his leg hold up his body. He’s on the ground in an instant, clutching his knee.

Geno has always been an uncommonly hardy athlete, has never had any major injuries to speak of even after all the years of skating and all the punishment that entails. But he feels his stomach go queasy not so much from the pain but from the sickening loosey-goosey way he can _feel_ his kneecap floating around inside his knee, and he knows this is definitely not good.

The x-rays and the MRI only confirm what he already knows. It’s a complete tear, both ligaments, and that’s all she wrote. No World Championships, no more skating for the rest of the season, or maybe even longer. Maybe no more skating, like, _ever_ , or at least not at the same level, and that’s just not something Geno’s ready to contemplate at 24 years old.

Geno feels like he’s living someone else’s life, like it’s not even real. He just wants to lie in his bed and Netflix his pain away, but his parents and his agent and his trainer and his brother and Irina and his whole stupid team want to _talk_ to him, want him to make decisions. They talk a lot about his options, about surgical advances and pioneering techniques and experimental approaches, about world-renowned facilities and top physicians in the field of knee reconstruction. They want him to decide what he’s going to do, how he’s going to handle this, what his next move is going to be. He just wants them to stop calling him and leave him alone with his pizza and his vodka and his blackout curtains.

His trainer Lee gives him a list of his top 5 recommendations for the doctors to perform the surgery that Geno knows he’s got no other choice but to have, but which he’s still doing his damnedest not to acknowledge.

There are two guys on the list from Midwest Orthopaedics, the facility in Chicago where Geno usually goes for treatment. There’s a guy from the Cleveland Clinic, one at the Mayo Clinic, and one at UPMC.

“What’s UPMC?” He asks Lee, disdain dripping from his voice. At least he’s _heard_ of these other places.

“University of Pittsburgh,” Lee fixes him with a look that says he’s unamused by Geno’s attitude. Lee is impatient on a good day, and has tolerance for petulance, self-pity and excuses on no days. Geno has learned that catastrophic knee injuries do absolutely nothing to change Lee’s hardline stance on any and all of the aforementioned, which he finds more than a little unfair.

This isn’t Geno complaining that Lee’s pushing him too hard in the gym or whining about having to run farther or lift more. This is a real thing, a life-altering, potentially career-derailing thing, and still Lee has no sympathy.

“These are the best surgeons around, Geno, and all of these facilities are state of the art. Any of them would be a perfectly good choice, but you have to _pick one_. Today. Choose. Like, _now_.”

Geno huffs and grits his teeth. He’d like to punch something – probably Lee’s face – but instead he just blurts out _fine, the Pittsburgh one,_ mainly because it seems like the most ridiculous and petulant choice he can make.

“Great,” Lee says sarcastically. “I’ll make the necessary appointments.”

“ _Great_ ,” Geno mimics, and Lee rolls his eyes.

+++

Geno is two weeks post-surgery, sitting alone in his extended-stay hotel suite, just down the block from the UPMC Rooney Sports Complex, overlooking the Monongahela River.

He’s bored, and he’s lonely. His dad had to get back to Chicago right after the surgery to run the rink, and he sent his mom home after a week out of a combination of guilt and irritation. He can’t imagine what possessed him to choose Pittsburgh to go through three months of rehab. Of all the fucking places.

He did it for spite, or so he thought, but now that he’s here, now that his head’s on a little straighter than it was a few weeks ago, he thinks maybe it was something else.

Because the radio, the TV, the PT’s at Rooney, the freaking delivery guy who delivers Geno’s dinner most nights - no one in Pittsburgh can stop talking about Sidney fucking Crosby, not for one minute.

Sid’s jersey, his number, his freaking face are on everything, here. Geno can’t escape it. Can’t escape _him_.

It makes him more than a little suspicious of his own motives.

He stares out the window a little longer, then thinks _fuck this_. He picks up his phone and types out a text.

_I’m looking at something called the Hot Metal Bridge. How is that an actual name of an actual bridge?_

Sid responds right away.

_Ur in Pittsburgh?_

Geno’s chest feels weirdly fluttery, suddenly.

_Yeah. Rehabbing my knee._

Sid doesn’t ask him to elaborate about the knee; the only question he asks is:

_Come over?_

It’s like 4 in the afternoon, cloudy and snowy and dark. It’s the kind of day that makes you want to stay inside, lazy and cozy and warm, and definitely not the kind that makes you want to climb out of your toasty, comfy bed, put on real clothes, and venture out into the freezing cold.

 _For sure_ , Geno types back, and Sid sends his address. Geno takes a shower and orders a cab.

+++

Sid’s house is enormous. Not like Geno expected anything less, but Jesus. Like, it’s _nuts_.

“This place is insane,” is the first thing he says when Sid opens the door, and Sid immediately blushes.

“I know,” he says, “it’s just -.”

“Hey, no,” Geno shushes him as he hobbles through the door. He’s trying to look cool here, but seriously _no one_ has ever looked smooth using goddamn crutches.

“I’m just jealous. I _wish_ I made this kind of bank, man.”

Geno is busy looking around, taking in the grand entry way and the huge staircase, the vaulted ceiling and the giant chandelier. It takes him a minute to realize that while he’s checking out the house, Sid is checking out Geno.

Geno raises his eyebrows, and Sid blushes again, caught in the act.

“So this is weird, I guess?” Geno tries, shrugging. He’s not really sure what the fuck they’re going to do here, between his knee and Sid’s head. “I’m not so much in booty-call-ready condition. I mean, not from the knee down at least.”

He tries a smirk, hoping for another round of that pretty pink blush that Sid does so fucking well, but Sid just regards him earnestly.

“That’s not why I asked you over,” he says seriously, no hint of a smile. “It’s just, I know how much it sucks being injured, and I thought maybe you were. I don’t know. I’ve been pretty bored, and. Kind of depressed, I guess, being stuck here on my own all the time.”

He says it so fucking sincerely Geno kind of wants to cry, suddenly. He swallows thickly.

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah,” Sid nods slowly. “I thought about texting you, when I heard you were hurt, but. I don’t know, I was afraid it would be weird, I guess, after all this time.”

“Like I said,” Geno shrugs, huffs a sort of awkward laugh. The air feels tense, like just before the sky opens up and the rain comes pouring down.

“No, I’m trying to say I’m really. I chickened out, is the thing. And I’m just glad you didn’t. You know? Really glad.”

There’s something in his face, then, something significant somehow, and Geno wants to kiss him with a sudden vengeance.

+++

It’s definitely not pretty, not all easy and sexy, not this time.

It’s work, getting up the stairs and on to the bed with the crutches and the knee brace and the whole thing. It takes effort, getting his sweats off over the bulky brace.

There are certain ways Geno can’t move, and certain ways Sid can’t move, but they feel their way, laughing and leaning into the awkwardness, until they figure out that on their sides, Sid’s back to Geno’s chest, they can make it work.

“I know you like it harder,” Geno pants, breathing in time with the slow, measured thrust of his hips. “Sorry this is all I’ve got right now.”

He runs his lips along Sid’s shoulder, up the back of his neck to his sweaty hairline, nuzzles behind his ear.

“No, it’s good,” Sid pants right back. “It’s so. Geez, _Geno_. It’s really good.”

After, Geno feels better than he’s felt in months, and he says so.

“Me, too.” Sid says, emphatic. “For sure.”

He’s quiet for a minute before he asks, “you hungry?”

+++

In the mornings Geno goes to aqua therapy then to PT. Usually he finishes up with a more standard workout – some cardio, some weights, core work, etc.

He’s back at his hotel in time to grab some lunch and a shower.

In the afternoons, he heads over to Sid’s and they just…hang.

Sid can’t do much, is the thing.

He can watch TV, or a movie, but he only gets so much screen time per day and he likes to save it for Pens games, or on off days, other hockey-related programming.

He can read for a little while, but not too long before he starts to get a headache.

He can’t play video games or even look at his phone for too long.

He has to be careful about bright lights and loud noises.

They can’t even play chess, or Risk, nothing strategic that requires too much thinking.

Sid’s not even supposed to _think_ too much. Like, fucking _seriously_ , Jesus.

So they hang out in Sid’s darkened living room, and just keep each other company.

Sid’s got a bunch of audio books, and sometimes they listen to those and laugh about how their lives are like 80 year-old grandpas.

Once Geno can drive again, he rents a car and goes directly to Target, shows up at Sid’s door with sacks full of dumb, mindless games like Sorry! and Chutes and Ladders and Go Fish and Hi-Ho Cherry-O. Then they play those and laugh about how their lives are like 8 year-old kids.

Sid still can’t drive, but once Geno can they can leave the house more easily, go out sometimes to eat or just to run an errand. But Sid doesn’t like to go out too much, thinks if fans see him out and about it just fuels speculation.

Geno’s always loved being famous, for all that his fame is limited. He’s always wished he could be _more_ famous, always thrived on the attention, always wanted to be a big fucking star. But he sees how limiting it is in Sid’s life, and he thinks for the first time, maybe it’s not so great after all. At least not for someone like Sid, who does whatever the opposite is of thrive, whose fame is a weight he has to carry every day of his life.

It makes Geno feel protective, makes him want to take care of Sid. It’s a dangerous thought.

It’s dangerous in a lot of ways, Geno thinks, this thing they’re doing. Not the sex, strangely enough - that part, for all that it might seem the most personal, the most intimate, actually feels the most perfunctory. They both feel bad, and the sex makes them feel good. It’s pretty fucking simple.

What’s dangerous is lounging together on Sid’s big couch, propped up against each other. It’s dangerous when Geno reads Sid funny tweets, giggling with his head against Sid’s hip, and Sid smiles down at him and cards his fingers through Geno’s hair. It’s dangerous when they watch hockey together, Sid’s feet in Geno’s lap, and talk shop, and Sid says _you really know your shit, huh_.

It’s dangerous, what happens after the sex, when they lie there sometimes in the dark and quiet, and kiss and touch and whisper about how shitty this all is, commiserate about their fears for the future, for their careers and what happens if they don’t come out of this they way everyone keeps telling them both they’ll come out of this.

March passes and April comes, and Geno is stills scheduled to go home at the end of the month. Geno gets better day by day, and Sid doesn’t, and Geno just.

He doesn’t want to leave.

+++

When they’re lying in the quiet of Sid’s bedroom one afternoon, sweaty and boneless in the sunshine because Sid’s head feels solid enough to open the shutters, today, Geno finally asks.

“You knew I was hurt. Before I got here, I mean – you already knew I blew out the knee.”

Sid’s blush is fierce this time, not just that usual sweet pale pink but something more akin to purple.

“Google alert,” he says finally, with a sort of helpless shrug. “I know it’s stupid; I don’t want you to think I’m -” he starts to go on, but Geno just shakes his head.

“I came to Pittsburgh,” he says, cutting Sid off, waving one arm in the general direction of his fucked up knee, for dramatic emphasis. “I live in _Chicago_ , and I came to _Pittsburgh_. For _three months_ , Sid. I made it so much fucking harder on myself, and for no apparent reason, except.”

Sid’s eyes are wide, and he looks almost scared for a minute, but then his lips start to curl at the edges, and suddenly he’s grinning, wide and white.

“Except me,” he says, almost disbelieving.

“Sidney fucking Crosby,” Geno huffs, shaking his head, the picture of incredulity.

Sid just grins bigger.

“That’s right,” he says, and then he’s crowding Geno back against the pillows, kissing him soft, “don’t you forget it.”

Geno can feel that there’s something else Sid wants to say, something he’s mulling over, so he just stays quiet. He keeps Sid pulled up snug against him, keeps his nose buried in Sid’s neck, and waits.

He’s not disappointed.

“This is. Stupid, probably, but. You were sort of my ultimate goal, in Vancouver. I mean after a Gold Medal.”

“I was your _goal_?”

“I’m a very goal-oriented person,” Sid goes on, as if that’s a regular thing to say, “and it was just a silly sort of fantasy, maybe, but then I ran into you. And you were _into_ it, into _me_. And then for it to be so. _Good_. I mean, Geno, it was, like -. I don’t get to do that - _this_ \- a lot, ya know? And when I do and then it’s – _less_ – than I’m hoping for it seems like such a waste, but you. _God_. You were just.”

He stops, seeming to realize that he’s rambling, that Geno’s just staring at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed. Sid’s face flushes red, and he swallows thickly, but Geno can see the glint of determination in his eyes.

“Perfect,” he finishes, obviously trying for resolute. “It was perfect, with you - just the way I always -. So anyway.” He finally trails off, and shrugs uncertainly again. “So I think I just convinced myself that I shouldn’t see you again. That it wouldn’t be. Smart, or whatever. So I just.”

He trails off with another shrug, his top teeth dug into that plush lower lip. Geno’s not sure he understands.

“Why wouldn’t it be smart?” He asks into Sid’s hair, a little afraid of the answer. “Seeing me again, I mean.”

“When you’re me?” Sid blows out his breath in a frustrated huff. “You know I’m not. Out, or whatever. I can’t just -.”

“Be seen hanging out with the most famous gay athlete in America?” Geno cuts him off, squeezes him tighter with a maybe-sad grin. “You don’t have to explain about that. I get it.”

“It’s so shitty, I know,” Sid says miserably, “to think that way. To put – someone – in that position. I just have to be, _whatever_. Discreet, I guess. Until I’m done playing, at least.”

Geno lets that hang out there for a while, lets it sit and ponders it. It’s way too late for him to try to go back in the closet, and he wouldn’t want to anyway. Nor does he want to be anyone’s dirty little secret. But he does very much want to see Sid again, and then again, and then a whole lot more after that.

“What if,” he proposes finally, “we just. Tried?”

“Tried?” Sid sounds confused. “I mean how would that even -. Work?”

“It just would.” Geno shrugs. “Or it wouldn’t, and we’d have to say we gave it our best shot, and go our separate ways. But we have to try to know for sure.”

Sid turns in his arms, looks up at him with wide eyes.

“I’ve never.” He puts his forehead against Geno’s chest, breathes deep. “I’ve never had anyone. I mean, I’ve never. Tried.”

“Do you want to? Try, I mean? With me?”

Sid is quiet, breathing against Geno’s chest, and Geno can feel the way his breath stutters, the way his lip trembles.

“It’s a big fucking deal for you, I know. And if you’re not up for it, I mean. I get that, Sid. I don’t want to ask you for something you’re not ready to give. I just want.”

He stops, sighs. Sid looks up at him, those big eyes and those pink, pink lips, and Geno does want to try, he realizes. Maybe he wants it more than he even realized, until right now.

“I guess I just want to stay here awhile longer and keep hanging out with you, and listening to your old man books and playing dumb kids games and having perfect sex with you and just -. I dunno, see what happens. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

Sid smiles, grin breaking out across his face, and Geno can practically see it, the minute he makes up his mind.

“I think. I mean, yeah, that’s okay with me. And I guess the sex _is_ pretty good,” Sid concedes, looking so sweet and bashful and pink faced Geno wants to devour him.

Geno’s heart is racing a mile a minute. They’re really fucking doing this, Geno and Sidney fucking Crosby.

“You said perfect, Sid,” Geno insists, grinning like a lunatic. “The sex is perfect - no take backs.”

“No take backs,” Sid promises, and Geno says _that’s more like it_ , and kisses him.


End file.
